Wilkinson was
playing badly, for he felt uncomfortable. Coristine chewed his
moustache and became red in the face. The landlord looked calmly on. At
last the card players, having had their third drink since the game
began, came over to the little table. One of the roughest and
worst-tongued of the three picked up a pile of dirty newspapers, looked
at one of them for a moment, pshawed as if there was nothing in them,
and threw the pile down with a twist of his hand fair on to the
draft-board, sweeping it half off the table and all the cardboard men to
the floor. In a moment Coristine was up, and laid hold of the fellow by
the shoulder. Pale but resolute, the schoolmaster, who had done physical
duty by unruly boys, stood beside him. The working geologist and the
landlord, Matt, looked on to see the fun of a fight between two city men
and three country bullies.
"Get down there," said Coristine to his man, trembling with indignation,
"get down there, and pick up all these chessmen, or I'll wring your neck
for you." The fellow made a blow at him with his free hand, a blow that
Coristine parried, and then the Irishman, letting go of his antagonist's
arm, gave him a sounding whack with all the might of his right fist,
that sent him sprawling to the ground.
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